Habit
by ongreenergrasses
Summary: They're normal things that anyone does. Until Mycroft does them methodically, incessantly, and neurotically, for which Lestrade wants to kill him. In a loving way. *BIRTHDAY FIC FOR FARFLEETINGFAIR*
1. AN that you're not obligated to read

**HELLOOOO my gorgeous people!  
****Well, I'm back. And this is weird. Cause I'm really not a huge Mystrade shipper. I mean, it's lovely and good, but my headcanon is a bit more complex and awkward and not just straight Mystrade.  
****BUT…  
****Okay. So you guys all at this point, if you're a regular, know about my dear friend Eliza, or farfleetingfair as she is known throughout the interwebz. She doesn't really like Sherlock, not really, but she adores Mystrade. I mean ADORES it. And today, as it is her 15****th**** birthday, I figured since her other present has not yet come in the mail I would write her a Mystrade. (Well, I would write her a present anyway, but you get the point.)  
****So of course I started writing and intended this to be a little cute thing and all of a sudden this great big lightning bolt plot bunny came and hit me. Hard. Pummeled me into the ground and all I could do was make dying whale noises. (If you understood that reference – I love you, come PM me if you don't already.)  
****And therefore?  
****I bring you my newest multichapter fic. It's not going to be a huge project, because I'm really not a huge Mystrader, but I'm thinking it'll go pretty regularly for a bit. Really short little drabbles.  
Happy birthday, my luv! You're halfway to thirty! ;)**


	2. Introduction

Mycroft had habits and Mycroft had Habits. This was something Lestrade learned very early on in their cohabitation. Those two things, habits and Habits, sprang from the same species (habit, n: a scheduled or regular tendency or practice) but they were the same much in the way that a Doberman and a Chihuahua are the same – genetically similar makeup but not much else to go on.

To Lestrade, the definition was ultimately much more complex. A habit was something less serious, something that Mycroft didn't attend to religiously. Oftentimes these habits were rather endearing and just quirks. Hell, Lestrade had his own quirks. Everyone did.

But a Habit?

A Habit was something Mycroft did every single day. Without fail. Rain or shine, crisis or no, he did that one thing every day. And quite frankly, most of Mycroft's Habits drove Lestrade absolutely batty. They were irritating, illogical, or insecure. These went beyond the shades of normal habits. They were neuroses, and of course Lestrade loved Mycroft none the less for their existence, but dear Lord.

These Habits could have been considered normal and/or mundane if Mycroft didn't do them every. Single. Day.


	3. Habit 1

The first day that Lestrade and Mycroft had work off together they spent at home. The plan was to wake up, do nothing, eat Chinese, do nothing, maybe have a quick shag, and then do even more nothing before going to bed. It was a flawless plan until certain, ahem, _differences_ surfaced between the two men.

When Lestrade doesn't have to go into work, he doesn't get up. Period. He sleeps until noon, then drags his sorry arse out of bed and wanders around the house in sweatpants and a Metallica tshirt for about six hours until he gets tired and goes back to bed. It is his idea of bliss. If he goes on holiday, he will spend at least half the hours he has there sleeping. He was looking forward to catching up on all the sleep he'd missed during his one day of freedom. But guess who was up and opening the blinds at 8 AM?

"MYCROFT!"

Honestly, there were very few species that could snarl that venomously. Mycroft had not encountered any aside from a few wild big cats. Like cheetahs and leopards.

"Greg, it's 8 already!"

"EIGHT?!"

"Yes. You surely don't intend to sleep the day away?"

A pillow was flung at the back of Mycroft's head. "Shut the blinds."

"But Greg –"

"NOW."

Thus Lestrade learned of the existence of Mycroft's Habit #1. The man didn't always get up early; rather, he was physically unable to sleep in. And Lestrade could not stand it. He'd always slept more than anyone he knew and having his bedmate get up every morning at some obscenely early hour was practically torture. (By the way, Lestrade was the victor in the Blinds Battle, as it became known. He was very perturbed about having been woken up and eventually losing a precious half hour of sleep as a result, though. So to get back at Mycroft, he slept till 3 PM.)


	4. Habit 2

And then after all that? There was Habit 2.

Lestrade discovered this one when Holmes the Younger dragged a pack of government officials, a mortician, Lestrade's entire division of Scotland Yard, and one extremely perturbed army doctor out to a remote island off the coast of Cornwall for a case. A city of sorts was created and the veritable army settled into their twenty tents amidst heavy rains. Mycroft, of course, could not bear to leave his work for any length of time, so he labored over several files by the limited light of a headlamp hung from the roof of his tent as he waited for his partner to finish talking with Sherlock.

Lestrade unzipped the tent flap and wormed his way in sopping wet, covered in mud, and in a foul mood - and then stopped dead in the tent entrance. (Seeing that he was now bent double trying to remove his shoes, that wasn't an easy feat.) "Mycroft, is that – "

"I apologize, Greg, but I'm not at liberty to divulge the contents of these. They're strictly classified – Level 2 clearance at the lowest."

"Not the files, you twat! Why are you wearing a waistcoat?"

Mycroft looked down at his attire, unperturbed. "I always wear a waistcoat."

"Mycroft, it's pissing down outside, we're staying in a tent on a mud-covered rock doing your little brother's legwork, and you're wearing a six hundred quid waistcoat?!"

"Like I said. I always wear a waistcoat. And I fail to see what Sherlock has to do with my attire."

There was a rather awkward silence. Then Lestrade shrugged, pulled off his shoes, and crawled into his sleeping bag. "Not too late, My. Sherlock's going to come pull the tent down if we're not out by 7."

He was fast asleep in a matter of seconds, and therefore missed Mycroft's snide, "Yes, Mummy".


	5. Habit 3

"Mycroft, what are you doing?"

It was a rather mundane question that was made decidedly un-mundane; the scenario was one of the more bizarre tableaus ever presented in the Holmes/Lestrade mansion. It was three AM on Wednesday. There was only one light on, a desk lamp that cast a sickly yellowish glow over everything, but was enough to illuminate one man stark naked and the other in a silk dressing gown. The posh illusion of the latter was ruined by the disaster surrounding him. Lestrade rubbed his eyes and thought blearily, _Christ, he's dumped out the desk_.

"I know it's here somewhere," Mycroft said, completely disregarding the question and dropping to his knees to sift thru piles of clutter. "I'm simply positive."

"What're you missing?" Lestrade said. He had resigned himself to the fact that Mycroft wasn't going back to bed anytime soon, and that meant he could do only one thing. He dragged himself over into the thick of the disaster and joined in with the search without the faintest idea of what he was supposed to be looking for.

They continued searching (well, Mycroft searched and Lestrade sort of picked up papers and dropped them back upside down) until finally two things happened at once. The antique grandfather clock in the hall chimed four times and Mycroft let out an extremely shrill delighted shriek, pouncing on a small object beside the overturned desk chair. He waved it aloft triumphantly, shooting Lestrade a gloating look.

"That old thing?" Lestrade said wearily, sitting back on his heels and rubbing his eyes again.

Mycroft looked at him, obviously affronted. "Gregory, I will have you know that this particular object is not only exceptionally useful, but has great sentimental value for me."

"It's a letter opener."

"Precisely."

"It's a letter opener that Sherlock made in pottery class during Year 3."

"You can't possibly expect me to believe that you possess nothing that your siblings made for you as children."

"Mycroft, that is the most hideous letter opener I've ever seen. You dumped out a desk for it at three o' clock in the morning." Mycroft gave a disparaging sigh.

"I cannot work without this," he said, brandishing the letter opener rather threateningly. "How am I supposed to open my letters?"

"Oh for God's sake," Lestrade said. "WITH YOUR HANDS, MYCROFT. OPEN AN ENVELOPE WITH YOUR HANDS." He hadn't realized that his voice had edged into shouting territory. Mycroft looked a bit taken aback.

"I'm going to bed," he said finally, turning and poncing into the hallway with the letter opener cradled in his arms. "Join me if you wish." Lestrade stared blankly at a rather engrossing stain on the wallpaper as the footsteps receded, then approached again. Mycroft's head popped back around the doorframe.

"I suppose," he said, "it would be prudent for you to know that I always use a letter opener." He walked off and a few minutes later Lestrade heard the bedroom door lock click.

**No idea where I was going with this. Anyway, I'm back, sorry for the hiatus lovelies :) I won NaNoWriMo and now I'm off on vacation so it'll make everything much easier in regards to writing and posting. I'm looking forward to easing back into the lovely world of fan fic. Merry Christmas!**


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